


ffarwel

by coffee-in-bed (littlemel)



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 01:46:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3631989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemel/pseuds/coffee-in-bed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things, even ugly and obsolete, will always have a place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ffarwel

Neither of them are especially sentimental; over the years they've replaced or lost or tossed out almost everything from that first flat, but here and there pieces have escaped the trash bin. A chipped yellow bowl that they'd taken to tossing their keys and pocket change into at the end of the day, the last of their first proper set of dishes, gets wrapped in newspaper and packed as carefully as the expensive china that surrounds it. Some things, even ugly and obsolete, will always have a place.

Ioan finds a birthday card, at least ten years old and beginning to yellow, stuck to the back of one of his bureau drawers, and tucks it between the pages of the book in his knapsack. He'll find it again later, on the flight back to LA, and worry over it then, running the side of his thumb over the imprint of the words, the spiked edges of an endearment long since faded to grey.

It's past midnight by the time they finish packing, leaving out only what they'll need for the morning. They're back to bare mattresses on the floor, and Ioan sits on the edge of Matthew's, making animal shapes with his hands in the shadow of the single shadeless lamp, unsettled by the thought that time has gone somehow backward but gotten lost along the way, that the sea of boxes are filled with the relics of a life he hasn't lived yet, rather than one he's lived perhaps too long.

His head hurts, his ears still ringing from the awful high-pitched squeak of the packing tape, and the hair at his temples and the nape of his neck is sweat-curly, sticking to his skin. His shoulders and the small of his back burn.  
  
Matthew comes in from the kitchen and hands Ioan a beer, music trailing in behind him, radio static under the familiar chords of a favorite song. They click the necks of their bottles together and Matthew sits, so close that their shoulders and knees touch as they drink. The song ends and they don't talk much, drifting into occasional bouts of "Remember when...?" that fall away into silences at once empty and full, pregnant with all the things they're not saying.

*

Two a.m. comes and goes and they're sharing the last beer from the now-empty fridge in the darkened bedroom, lying back on Matthew's bed and watching the moon make its way across the sky. In six hours two trucks will arrive, one to take the furniture to Matthew's new flat uptown, the other to ship Ioan's few remaining boxes to LA, where they'd likely sit in a closet in an unused room, hidden away but not forgotten.

Ioan passes the beer to Matthew, their wet fingers brushing as the bottle changes hands, and it's so easy, how the smallest touch between them becomes subtly more when Matthew's thumb strokes along Ioan's knuckles. Ioan turns his head, and Matthew meets him halfway for a clinging press of lips, a messy slide of tongues.

 _Just one last time_ , Ioan thinks, as Matthew fumbles to set the bottle down on the floor. _Just for old time's sake_. He curls his fingers under the waist of Matthew's jeans and tugs him closer; as desperately clumsy, suddenly, as the first time, knowing this will be the last. _Just for us. Just for me_.

 

*

He's still awake when the first ray of sunlight creeps through the window, gaudy pink and blinding. Ten years ago, he and Matthew would've been stumbling to bed at this time of the morning. Now Matthew's dozing behind him while Ioan fights to stay awake, unwilling to give up these last few hours to sleep and teasing dreams. A car horn sounds from the street below, the far-off sound of a train whistle drifting in with the breeze, and Matthew sighs, rolls over to press warm and solid against Ioan's back.

"I take it back," Ioan says quietly. "I changed my mind." In his head the words sounded desperate and panicky; out loud, they sound resigned.

"Ioan." Matthew's voice is muffled by Ioan's hair, thick with the morning and something that might have been regret, or simply sorrow. And then, unnecessarily: "It's too late. It's already done."

Ioan nods and closes his eyes, finally. The pillow beneath his head smells of Matthew's skin, of his soap and cologne, and Ioan's glad that they've done this here, said their goodbyes in a room that feels lived in. His own room is nothing but dust and shadows on the walls, dents in the carpet and the musty smell of memory.

He feels for Matthew's hand under the blankets and finds it with an ease that makes his chest ache; he could always reach blindly for Matthew here, in their place, and know exactly where he was.


End file.
